


The Cold, It Whistles, Too

by lisswrites



Category: Snowpiercer (2013)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-27
Updated: 2015-01-27
Packaged: 2018-03-09 08:46:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3243515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lisswrites/pseuds/lisswrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Tail Section's filth permeates everything-- except for this, never this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Cold, It Whistles, Too

**Author's Note:**

> I never expected to be writing Snowpiercer fic, yet here I am. Set pre-movie, providing some back story for Curtis and Edgar. Hopefully I did these characters justice!

* * *

  
He remembers when he was young, even smaller than he is now. Just big eyes set into an ashen face, snot flowing from the red snub of his nose. The way his brittle, train-baby bones would rattle and clangor with each wracking cough.  
  
  
Curtis had mashed up protein blocks, mixed them with a little water, too, if he recalls it right. Warmed it all in an ancient aluminum can- that much he remembered perfectly. Adding just enough water until the mixture went thin and even.  
  
  
It was the only thing Edgar could keep down.  
  
  
They’d smooth his sweaty hair, call him a baby bird as they fed him, best they could.

  
He’d started at that, weakly. “Train babies don’t fly.” Curtis scoffed because only Edgar, barbed-wire-mouthed Edgar, would try and be wise in his sick-bed.  
  
  
He tried to roll his eyes, but they were too glossy; the movement causing the tears he'd been fighting to cling to his lower lashes.  
  


Tanya pulled the curtain shut, the movement vicious. It was the only privacy the train afforded.  
  


She crowded him, the shadow of her silhouette bleeding into his, and pressed her fingers into shoulders, shaking him just a bit.  
  


“Don’t you fucking dare, Curtis. Don’t you put that boy into the ground already.” He nodded, caught the sleeve of her sweater with one hand and sank a shaking hand into the socket of his eye with the other."  
  


But Edgar could see through the worn blanket, through the holes and the patches where the thread went nearly translucent from age. The sight of him, their staunch-not-leader. Could hear the sound of him sucking in a wet, shaky breath. It was the only thing that sent Edgar screaming the night.  
  


Not the Bloody Days, not even the bone he’d revealed when he’d broken Old Jim’s greedy fingers so many track-revolutions before.  
  


Just Curtis, splintering and cracking right there in front of him.

* * *

   
He recovered eventually. But the illness left him smaller than he should’ve been; slight from months spent barely moving.  
  


Tanya had been worried that the fight would’ve sapped the verve out of him, leaving him all hollowed out and weary in his bones. But they should’ve known. Edgar was indomitable, all sharp elbows and brash, gnashing words.  
  


He was strong, not in the Old World way, no. Barrel-chested, broad; that wasn’t possible anymore. But, Edgar was lithe muscle and not much else. Quick, too. He never lost his footing, not once.  
  


Grey was flashier, eye-catching, despite Gilliam’s best attempts. But he was trained and honed into what he was.  
  


But Curtis’ eyes saw everything. At least tried to.  
  


Edgar was sure-footed, barely phased by jutting, sharp turns. Seemed not to notice the rollicking floors beneath him, the whistling cold, either. And it was all more natural, more casual, the way he ducked and rolled and threw his all into every punch. Messier, sure. But real in a way that was frightening.  
  


He could be quiet, too. Practically like a second shadow, the way he followed Curtis around the compartments.  
  


But it was always so easy.  
  


The wide berth of Curtis’ shoulders would cleave through the crowds, leaving more than enough room for Edgar, scrawny and slight, to clamber past the empty spaces he left behind while dodging the soot-smeared hands clapping the broad back before him.  
  


By the time Edgar became second and command, following Curtis’ lead seemed reflexive.

* * *

   
Life unfurls faster for train babies; there aren’t milestones on the train, just frantic living; breakneck and harsh.   
  
  
It shouldn’t have shocked him. He would've been old enough even by the Old World standards. But it didn’t stop Curtis from sucking in a jagged breath or from reaching out for the metal of the wall to steady himself at the sight in front of him.  
  


Grey was soundless, still. Mouth open wide, neck tendons straining and quivering.  
  


Curtis wanted to turn, wanted to wrench his eyes shut, forget it like he’d forgotten every other fuck he’d seen in here. But he couldn’t look away. His eyes trained on the fingers entwined in Edgar’s hair, at the stretch of pale-pale neck, flush just starting to crawl down his skin.  
  


He wanted to laugh. Wanted to cry a bit, too. So, he screamed instead.  
  
  
Yelled for them stop, for them to have some damn decency.  
  
  
Edgar crowed at that-- fookin’ decency, _here_.  
  


And then his voice broke on a gasp and Curtis was leaving, leaving, leaving, feet carrying him clear across the tail section.

* * *

   
“S’pose I like the way a beard feels?” Most broads can’t deliver that- ‘cept maybe Rita.”  
  


He eyed Curtis, the mirth falling away bit by bit, the weight of his gaze getting heavier with each second.  
  


“You’d do nicely, though.”

  
“ _Jeeesus_.” He rubbed a hand across his face, catching and drawing out his lips with the force of it. Edgar tracked the movement. Not even bothering to hide it. “Ya gotta stop this shit, man.”

  
Edgar scoffed, “Why?- A mouth on your prick’s a mouth on your prick.” He shrugged easily, “ ‘S really that simple.”

  
Curtis chuckled at that, shaking his head just a bit too.

  
“Besides, don’t count your mouth short, Curtis.”

_  
Unfuckingbelievable._

* * *

  
They didn’t see each other again until the next morning’s count, until bent knees, and veiled venomous glances at the guards-- like clockwork.  


They’d dropped Edgar’s protein block on the ground, purposefully. Right on the dust and filth and grime.

  
The silence was eerie. Curtis watched, jaw nearly breaking from the strain, as Edgar slowly pinched off a piece of the block. Clenching it thoughtfully between his fingers for a moment before making his move. 

  
The thwack it made as it was flicked onto the closest guard's visor was deafening.

  
It was a blur of rifles and clubs after that, shiny vinyl boots stomping on fragile ribs. The sight of spit and blood coating still-smiling lips. The only thing stopping Curtis from surging to his feet was Gilliam’s hand against his ankle and the memory of Rakeem’s shattered, icy arm as payment due for the uprising a track revolution before.

  
The anger’s been drained out of him by the time he reaches Edgar, trying to pull himself up with shaky hands and uncooperative legs. But the feeling of Curtis’ hands under his armpits, hoisting him back up, sets him off again.

  
He lashes out, face livid with purple splotches and flushed from the anger bristling in his breastbone. “Don’t you fookin’ touch me!” His voice is no more than a wheeze, but it’s vicious.  
  
  
“Spend all of your time watching people, but you know jackshit about yourself-.” It’s harsh and sharp and takes the breath out of Curtis’ chest. "You think you’re so fucking smart, is the thing- it’s almost funny, in a way.”

  
“Try and make yourself so hard to read, but you’re awful at it. You’ve got a tell, you know. _Big_ fuckin’ tell. Fiddle with that hat’a yours whenever you’re lying. Prolly why Gilliam won’t ever let you parlay for ‘im.” 

  
“Give it a rest, Edgar.” Curtis unleashes one of those looks; the scathing, scoffing, one that makes him feel like he’s seven again. It only fuels him on. But he’s letting Curtis move him, at least.

  
“You wanna know how I know?”

  
“I mean you seem real set on telling me, so it doesn't really matter what I say at this point.”  


Edgar smiled at that, cracking open the new splits on his lips.  


“You always start playing with it when you say you don’t want me.” Curtis has his mouth open, ready to finally put an end to this conversation, but Edgar doesn’t let’im. Just keeps on going.  


“You think I don’t hear you?” He laughs a bit, not much force behind it. “Shit, maybe you don’t even know.” He catches Curtis' gaze then, direct, full of fire. The same look that’s landed him more beatings from the guards then he has fingers and toes to count them on.  


“You ask for me in your sleep.”  
  


Curtis can feel his mouth drying, the sounds of the train seeming to grow bleary and then too-loud all at once. It’s clear Edgar’s waiting for something. A fist, a vicious press of teeth and tongue, just something after all this nothing. But it doesn’t come, just a shaky pull of breath through Curtis’ set teeth.  


“You’re a fucking coward. With me. With the cause. Fucking everything- you don’t have the mettle for it.” It almost scares him, the way Edgar’s hands are shaking and the spit that’s flying out of his mouth. Furious in the way that makes it look like his skin’s too thin to keep him together much longer. Till all that’ll be left is blood and guts and rage on the floor.  


“You barely even _breathe_ when I’m close t’ya. Get all tense. And you wonder why I’m always under your heels--It’s because one day you’re gonna break. You’re not nearly as strong as you think you are.” Curtis looks anywhere but Edgar’s eyes, feeling frayed at the edges and vulnerable in a way he can’t afford to be. “You’re gonna crack soon.”  


Edgar’s not yelling anymore. Just speaking soft and off-hand, like this is as sure as anything.

  
“You’re gonna crumble thinking about my hands and my mouth, wondering what it’ll taste like when I fall apart.” He brushes his fingers across Curtis’ jaw, tracing the jut of bone made by clenching his teeth together. “And I’ll be fookin' waitin'.”

**Author's Note:**

> I think I'll be posting a second part, soon. The situation's a powder keg at this point. It'd be a shame not to write out the combustion, too.


End file.
